


You're Ready and You're Willing

by Eugara



Category: Scooby Doo - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Cartoon Physics, Coitus Interruptus, Episode Tag, Episode: s13e16 Scoobynatural, Established Relationship, Horny Dean Winchester, Humor, Jealous Sam Winchester, M/M, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eugara/pseuds/Eugara
Summary: Tag toScoobynatural(13x16). Sam's not jealous, okay? Or curious. Despite Dean's perverted obsession with cartoon porn.





	You're Ready and You're Willing

Dean’s sitting back in one of the bedroom’s fancy, green chairs, picking the remainders of his most recent sandwich out of his teeth and lazily looking on while Sam uncomfortably paces around in his freaky cartoon body that doesn’t quite feel right. He’d snuck a glance at his reflection earlier, in one of the Impala’s side mirrors, and it’d thrown him so much he’s been actively avoiding catching sight of himself since. Thankfully, most of the mirrors painted into the background of this clichéd haunted house are coated in an opaque layer of dust or smashed in or both. Ambiance or whatever. For the fucking _mystery_ these kids are supposed to solve.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” his brother drawls eventually, probably once he’s grown sick of his jerky fidgeting. “What’s got you jumpier than a virgin in a brothel?”

Sam spins around to fix him with an incredulous stare. As if Dean couldn’t possibly know the answer to that question. “ _Look_ at me,” he says, waving his arms in helpless exasperation and trying to ignore how unsettling it is to catch the colorful yellow blur in his peripheral vision. He’s wearing the borrowed pajamas of a fictional character. His life couldn’t _get_ any stranger. “Look at you,” he adds with a fling of his wrist. “We are beyond screwed, Dean.”

His brother snorts in quiet amusement. “That could be the title of our autobiography.” Then he lets out a relenting sound once he realizes that Sam’s mood isn’t budging at the dumb joke. “You’re acting like we’ve never been in an alternate universe before,” he points out. “That’s, like, all we do these days.”

Sam twitches his nose and refuses to concede to the unfortunately accurate assessment. “Well this is an extra weird one,” he mumbles, crossing his arms back over his chest. He’s not even sure if this place counts as a full-on alternate universe, technically—considering that they’re just inside some stupid TV. A _microverse_ , maybe.

“Look, Sammy,” Dean sighs, pushing against his ridiculously purple-clad knees to get back up to his bare feet, “we’re just playing our parts, right? Like with the Gabriel thing. It’ll sort itself out.”

“No,” Sam says, “you damn well know it won’t. What we should be doing is looking for a way out of this Hanna-Barbera nightmare, but you’re too busy making moves on the _teenager_ down the hall to care.”

“Dude, keep your voice down,” Dean hisses under his breath, tilting his head at the sleeping bodies of Fred and Shaggy. And Scooby. Their unnerving aberration of a talking dog. It’s freaking creepy, is what it is. Every time he opens his mouth, Sam can’t help but think about David Berkowitz. One thing’s for sure, if he ever makes it back to three dimensions, he’s gonna kiss the bunker floor. The one in the storerooms that Dean barely mops. Where it’s really dusty and gross. “And by the way,” his brother continues, trying to come off all stern and in-charge—and utterly failing due to the ludicrous purple hat flopping over his brow, “these guys have been ‘teenagers’ since 1969.” He tosses up the appropriate air quotes and a couple of spare movement lines follow his fingers. “Daphne’s older than I am.”

Sam lets out a chastened scoff. “I mean, yeah, _technically_.”

Dean levels him with a suspicious look and Sam tries to take him seriously with the exaggerated cheekbones and the lips—so, not too different from their usual reality, really. “Sam, I mean it,” he says gruffly. Jabbing a finger up in his face. “Don’t you dare mess this up for me just ‘cause you’re jealous.”

“I’m not _jealous_ , Dean,” he says, testily swatting his brother’s hand away, “She’s not even real.”

Dean lets a sinful chuckle escape. “Seems real enough to me,” he leers, his eyebrows waggling in a way he’d never been able to perfect in real life.

Sam chokes on an annoyed noise and rolls his eyes, briefly wondering if his standard expressions carry over on his new face the way Dean’s do. It’s a little unnerving how instantly they’d been able to recognize each other when they’d first got zapped here. There was no initial moment of _‘Who the hell are you?’_ , it was just, _‘Jesus Christ, why do you look like that?’._ And maybe there’s something sentimental in the truth of that, but Sam’s too wigged out by all the rest of it to think on it in-depth.

He hasn’t spoken for a few moments now, uncomfortable and tetchy, and Dean seems to take his silence personally. Which is good because that’s what Sam was going for. “What?” he says tightly. “Why are you taking your little bitch-fi— _temper tantrum_ out on me?” He clears his throat, trying to maintain a watch on his mouth like he has all night. “It’s not my fault we’re here. Or that your sense of fun was clearly surgically removed.”

Sam’s jaw actually drops open at his brother’s words and he swears he can hear an accompanying _thunk_. Which he very stolidly ignores. “Yes, it is your fault we’re here,” he snaps quietly. “This never even would’ve happened if it wasn’t for that unnecessary TV you just _had_ to have.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to roll his eyes. “So sue me, Sam,” he says. “I’m sick and tired of trying to watch stuff in your tiny bed. We don’t even fit side-by-side on that thing. Your stupid shoulders are too big.” He hyperbolically spreads his hands out to elucidate.

Sam self-consciously hunches in on himself, trying not to sound too childish or sulky about it. “We don’t have to be side-by-side,” he mutters under his breath.

And to his credit, Dean immediately softens. “Yeah, well,” he says, warmer, “you’re heavy. I can handle it for forty-five minutes, not for an entire binge of Godless.” He skims his eyes around the decrepit room, probably making sure everyone’s still sleeping, then fixes that familiar bedroom gaze on him. Darker, now that there’s no green in it. “Although,” he purrs, sidling in close, “speaking of forty-five minutes…”

Sam half-heartedly tries to keep him at bay. “Dean,” he warns him, “you already told them we’re brothers.”

Dean pushes forward anyway. Not even Chuck himself could stop him whenever he gets like this. Though Sam idly wonders if it’s actually a little worse now. If their personality traits got exaggerated too, now that they’re animated. He _does_ feel as snippy as he ever gets.

“They’re sleeping,” his brother reminds him suggestively, snaking a strong arm around his waist. And damn him for being honest, but it feels good. It always feels so fucking good when Dean gets his hands on him. Even like this. Even with the textures of things a little dulled, minus that ever-so-crucial extra dimension. Even with how goddamn goofy his brother looks right now in what he’s wearing.

“They could wake up any minute,” Sam protests, the voice of reason even as he hates himself for it. He’s not gonna be the one responsible for turning this place into Cool World. _Constantine_ maybe, if they have to let the gang in on the truth of things, but he’s got at least some limits. “Not to mention,” he says, trying and failing to unwrap himself from Dean’s hold, “they do seem kinda… _wholesome_.” It’s the nicest word Sam can think of for it without descending into judgmental name-calling. “I’m not sure how open they’d be to two dudes macking on each other even if we weren’t related.”

Dean lets a perfect white grin spread over his face—one of the corners actually sparkles with a little _ting_ sound effect. “I dunno, man,” he says playfully. “They seem like a _groovy_ bunch.”

“Ugh, you did not just say that,” Sam groans.

“Blondie and Stoner over there are even sharing a bed.”

“With their _dog_.”

Dean tosses him a teasing shrug. “Whatever, I ain’t gonna judge.”

“Ew,” Sam says, but Dean only chuckles and ducks down to mouth over his neck. Sam jerks sharply away before he can make contact. “I thought you were only interested in hooking up with Daphne,” he snipes, even as he mentally kicks himself for sounding so pissy about it. _Okay_ , so maybe he’s a little jealous. Whatever. Anyone would be in his shoes.

Dean lets a knowing smile flirt at the edges of his mouth, tracing his knuckles along the inked line of Sam’s jaw as he presses in a little closer. “Well, I figure if I do my manly duty and get your rocks off now, then maybe you won’t be as obnoxiously uptight for the rest of the night.” Sam can feel his brother’s other hand creep away from his waist to slip up under the hem of his pajama shirt. “Pull that aforementioned stick out by force if need be.”

Sam gives him a flat stare. “Gee, how romantic.”

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean says persuasively. “It’s a compliment.”

“No, it really isn’t.”

His brother ignores him, pressing onward like he’s given in already. “I’m just saying you look kinda good like this,” he continues, low and warm—and Sam stoically clamps down on the hot flutter in his belly at that tone of voice. “Even considering Fred’s stupid pajamas.”

“You are wearing,” Sam grits through his teeth. “A purple. Dress.”

“ _Sleeping robe_ ,” Dean corrects him insistently. But the animosity doesn’t last for long before he flips back into his seduction mode. “Between you and me, I can tell you one more great thing about it.” He dips his voice by half and raises a perfectly-drawn eyebrow. “Easy access.”

Sam’s face immediately lights up so hot he half thinks steam might come shooting out of his ears. And that isn’t an exaggeration, unfortunately. Not in this…wherever they are.”

“Oh my god, that’s hilarious.”

“What?” he asks tightly.

Dean bites at his lower lip as he tries to hold in his mockery. “You are bright red, man. Like _tomato red_.”

Sam shoves against his brother’s chest in vain. “No, I’m not.”

“I should grab you a mirror.” He holds fast against Sam’s embarrassed struggling, reaching his right hand up to swipe a thumb down the side of his overheated face. “Okay, that’s adorable.”

“Dean, quit it,” he grumbles. He is not going to be teased and belittled by a man in a nightgown. That’s just cosmically unfair.

But Dean simply dips back down to press his lips over the base of his throat. He succeeds this time, and it feels near as good as it usually does. Sam tries to stay indignant, just for the sake of it, but he ends up melting under the gentle caresses anyway. Just like always. His hands relaxing as they circle his brother’s arms. If he closed his eyes, this could almost be like a normal evening back in the bunker.

“This is about your weird hentai fetish, isn’t it?” he asks, biting back on a moan.

Dean chuckles against his skin at the easy victory. “C’mon, aren’t you curious?”

“About what? Your bulletproof libido?”

“It’s just—” Dean shifts back on his heels as he decides how to lay out his argument. His hands stay warm against Sam’s lower back though. “Food is…different here, Sammy. I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Right,” Sam replies in dry exasperation. “You could fit an entire party sub in your mouth. We were all thoroughly impressed and disgusted.”

“No, not that. Well—actually _yes_ that, but that’s not my point.”

Sam just blinks at him for a little bit. “You’re losing me.”

Dean huffs out a breath and tries again. “That sandwich was crazy, Sam,” he says slowly. “Like out-of-this-world, best-thing-I’ve-ever-eaten crazy.” He absent-mindedly runs the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip—probably still fantasizing about it if Sam knows his brother. “Taste must be more vivid here or something.”

And it kinda makes sense, Sam guesses. If he was feeling inclined to be supportive of Dean’s weirdo theories right now. He’d watched enough cartoons as a kid, salivated over the colorful, too-perfect-to-be-real depictions of food. Maybe Dean is right and one sense is jacked all the way up in this place to make up for the limitations of the others. Because he can still _feel,_ obviously, but the sensation is muted in a weird way. Flatter than it should be. Simplified. Surfaces are missing definition and detail.

Plus, everyone here is getting the short end of the stick _visually_ too. Yes, Dean still looks like Dean for the most part—enough to be recognizable—but he lacks pores. Irises. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The slight dusting of freckles Sam can always seem to make out, even in the dark. Sam’s spent his entire life memorizing his brother’s face. Annoyingly in love with every square millimeter of it. Any deviation from the model feels like a loss somehow.

“I’m just saying,” Dean continues, finally getting around to the real reason he brought this up in the first place, “I bet eating ain’t the only thing that feels _vivid_ around here.” He adds on another lewd quirk of his eyebrows just to drive the suggestion home. As if his brother wasn’t about as subtle as a falling anvil on his best day.

Sam almost snorts at the obvious turn Dean’s argument has taken. “You know, I think you got shunted into the wrong cartoon,” he mocks. “I’m surprised you even look like you. You should be one of those Tex Avery wolves howling at the Red Riding Hood strippers.”

Dean lets out a low whistle, totally undeterred by his sarcasm. “Man, I used to love those.”

“ _Used_ to?”

“Shut up, jackass,” he scoffs in good humor, “you know what I mean.” Dean leans in a little more, leaves a teasing nip to the point of his chin. “You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little tempted.”

“I’m not—” Sam tries to lie, then changes tactics. “We’re not exactly alone here.”

 _Shit_. He can tell by the excited gleam in his brother’s eye that his equivocation has already lost him this battle. Not that he was fighting too hard to begin with.

“I can be quiet,” Dean purrs, tugging him back toward the tiny, antique table he’d been sitting at earlier. “Can you?” He trails a line of dry kisses up his neck, then nudges his nose into the hair behind his ear. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Just think of it like the Mile High Club—only, less terrifying.”

“This is way more terrifying, you coward.”

“You’re the coward,” Dean mutters under his breath, but he doesn’t seem to take Sam’s jibe to heart because he’s all over him again in the next second.

And Sam would make a crack about G-rated cartoon characters maybe not even having the proper equipment if he couldn’t feel Dean pressing hot and hard into his hip through their flimsy sleepwear.

Dean groans at the pressure, hitching their hips a little tighter together. “Plus, this is probably the only chance for action you’re gonna get tonight,” he says obnoxiously. Then he pulls back for half a second, lips pursing up to the side as he ponders something. “Unless you wanna help me out by getting Fred off my back.”

Sam digs his fingernails into Dean’s biceps—except, he doesn’t exactly _have_ fingernails at the moment. Either way, he presses hard enough until his brother winces. “You being a jerk does not plead your case for you.”

But Dean decides to pretend like he can’t even hear him. “Sammy,” he coaxes, “baby, you know you want to.”

And Sam hates—hates, hates, _hates_ —that his brother looks so goddamn irresistible, even in 2-D. Even in that stupid fucking nightdress and matching cap.

Dean knows it too, given the way he slips his hands from Sam’s waist and leans back against the table with a victorious grin. Compliant and enticing. Pushing every single one of his friggin’ buttons solely because he’s the only one who knows how to.

Sam smothers a frustrated growl under his breath and finally gives in. He steps in between his brother’s spread legs and lets his hands be drawn to Dean’s skin the way they so clearly want to, grazing over the hint of collarbone peeking out from behind the deep vee of his collar. Then the firm solidity of his chest beneath. They’ll have to be quiet if they don’t want to wake up the meddling kids behind them, so Sam can’t go as rough as he usually likes. But that’s okay. Sometimes mixing things up can be good too.

He finally caves, emboldened by Dean’s pleased hitch of breath at the contact, and grudgingly meanders his touch over to the purple material Dean is so annoyingly fond of. It _is_ soft, Sam has to admit as he slowly sweeps his hands over his brother’s shoulders. He can see how it might feel good against bare skin. Maybe.

“See?” Dean crows.

Sam ignores him for his own peace of mind.

Dean responds by huffing out a laugh and reaching out to unbutton his loose pajama shirt for him. Slow. Probably just for the added drama. Sam shivers a little as each successive bit of cool air hits his skin, but Dean’s eyes stay fixed to the long stretch of flesh he’s unveiling. “ _Damn_ ,” he lets out on an appreciative breath. “Looking good, little brother.”

And god help him, Sam can’t resist being a little curious too.

His body hair is gone. Which isn’t a surprise given that both their faces are clean-shaven. Maybe stubble is too time-consuming to draw. It’s still weird though, as he glances down at his own plain, bare skin. Only one wiggly line down the center of his torso to delineate his abs.

Dean traces his fingertips down the ridges of it, gentle and exploring. “You good?” he asks perfunctorily. And Sam’s heart skips a beat, despite him, at the reminder that Dean knows him so well. Knows how he can get about these kinds of things. Any potential physical or metaphysical shift in body that might make him feel ‘not himself’. He’s actually pretty okay though, now that he’s settled into it. Now that Dean’s focus is on him like it’s supposed to be.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning his head against his brother’s temple. Dean smells like himself, but fainter. A vague, familiar aura of _brother_ instead of the distinct, disparate scents of hair gel, Old Spice, gunpowder, and whiskey. It’s close enough to center him anyway.

Sam slips his own fingers down to bunch in the hem of Dean’s robe. He’s expecting a flash of his brother’s animated dick when he returns the favor, shoving the soft cloth up past his hips, but he’s still got his boxers on underneath—the small black shorts painted tight around the bowed width of his thighs. Well, at least this place got that right. Sam squeezes around Dean’s strong waist and tries not to let himself salivate too much at the sight or feel, honestly concerned his eyeballs might _ahoogah_ out of his head or something, just for the visual joke. It makes sense. Dean would have probably made some dumb comment about how ‘breezy’ his nightgown was if he’d been going commando. Sam mentally grumbles at the letdown and decides on rectifying that as soon as possible.

Funnily, Dean doesn’t have a matching six-pack squiggle when Sam pushes up the nightshirt a little higher, just a few curved lines carving out the shape of his pecs. It’s still strangely and unfairly attractive, despite his brother’s complaints to the contrary. “Oh, _come_ _on_ ,” he whines in envy, running a flat hand down his own stomach.

Sam can’t help the snigger of smothered laughter. “What were you expecting?”

Dean just glares at him. “Shut up, Sam,” he grumbles, reaching his hand out to grab at Sam’s ass and yank him in closer, a little rougher than usual.

The little exhale of breath at the action isn’t planned, but it’s quiet enough that Sam doesn’t worry too much about waking their roommates. The material had fallen back around Dean’s legs at the harsh motion, draped over Sam’s hands where they’re now firmly gripping at his brother’s hips. He’s probably gonna leave bruises. If cartoons _can_ leave bruises. The thought that he might not be able to is surprisingly disheartening.

But Sam’s just stalling now. He knows he is. So he swallows against the slight dryness in his throat and curls his fingertips into the waistband of his brother’s shorts. Commando. That’s something Sam can do. He yanks the material down Dean’s smooth legs in one easy move, fisting the dark cloth in his palm as he rises back up to standing. Staring down at the mere comma of a black outline suggesting where Dean’s hard cock must be tenting the fabric. Covered only by that thin, purple robe.

“Huh,” Dean says with a jocular smirk, “breezy.”

 _There_ it is.

Sam doesn’t let it kill the mood though, slowly bunching the nightshirt back up, inch-by-inch as he reveals more of his brother’s bare skin to his eyes. Letting the anticipation build. Dean’s not quite as pale as he usually is, Sam realizes once he gets up to his thighs. His hands skimming against his brother’s skin are the exact same color. It’s weird, that lack of detail. The same way his hair is just a shade too dark. But maybe there’s something compelling about it too. The simplicity of it. Maybe Dean was right about this cartoon porn thing—though you’d never hear Sam admit it out loud.

He’s finally reached the apex of Dean’s sex, swallowing back restrained excitement at the thought that there are no more minor obstacles in their way before they really do this. Sam takes an anticipatory breath, wets his lips to prepare himself, and flips the material back to finally reveal his brother fully.

It’s…blurred out.

Like, completely censored for young audiences. A know-it-all part of Sam reminds him that he really should have expected that, but it’s hard to stay rational through the larger haze of disappointment. He waves his free hand over the area a couple times, but can’t make out anything past the pixelated, flesh-colored square hovering immovably above Dean’s crotch.

“Looks good, huh?” his brother brags egotistically from above him, reading exactly the opposite into his dazed silence.

And Sam can’t help but laugh.

“What?” Dean asks tensely the second he hears him, jerking upright. He’s probably horrified the animation isn’t doing him justice or something, but when he desperately cranes over to get a look at himself, the helpless expression on his face is even funnier than the blurring itself. “Oh, _come on_ ,” he whines again, even more pitiful this time.

Sam laughs even harder.

“ _Shut_ _up_ , Sam,” he grinds out angrily, but Sam couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. Dean wrenches him back against his chest and slaps a hand over his mouth. “Sam,” he growls into his ear, “shut up or you’re gonna wake everyone.”

Sam’s shoulders silently shake for a few moments more, his brother’s thighs clenched tight around his hips until he eventually manages to get ahold of himself. He can feel Dean digging into his lower back, so obviously he’s still got the anatomy where it counts, but trying to make this work without being able to see anything clearly is gonna be an exercise in hilarious futility.

Dean snakes a hand down to stubbornly palm Sam’s own burgeoning erection—and maybe it’s just to stack the deck in his favor, but it works. Sam stumbles back against his brother with a breathy groan and any thoughts about pumping the brakes before they get any further go flying out of his head.

Dean holds him firm, completely wrapped around him from behind. “We still doing this?” he asks, his hot breath pouring over the curve of his ear.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, okay.”

His brother finally lets him go and Sam immediately flips around to focus on Dean’s crotch, shoving all the loose fabric out of the way. His hand blurs too, once he actually passes through the censored area, so he has to blindly grope his way around by feel, but Sam’s literally done this before with his eyes closed. He wants Dean’s dick in his fist, _now_. He wants it in a hell of a lot of places, but he doubts they’re gonna have much leeway here with the three Saturday Morning characters asleep only a few feet away.

Sam carefully maps out the shape of his brother’s cock with gentle touches, closing his eyes for a moment and pretending they’re on the war room table back home. He traces around the thick root to the sound of Dean’s hushed groans, brings the backs of his fingers up along the underside and is rewarded by a twitch of his inner thighs, then reaches back further, skimming over his balls to press a thumb against the shallow dip of his brother’s asshole, just to feel it pulse. Traversing each inch of real estate entirely from memory.

Dean sucks in a quiet little breath at the exploration, his hands latching onto Sam and urging him on.

It feels…simpler, once Sam’s actually got a grip around his brother’s familiar girth, but it sure as hell seems to work the same given the way Dean’s toes curl up and he scrabbles his hands over his shoulders. The velvet softness is still there. The rigid iron of it is still there. The slick slip of hot skin is still there, but Sam can’t feel any coarse hair brushing against his knuckles or the swollen trace of veins underneath his fingertips. He deliberately lets go of his lingering neuroses and continues pumping his brother anyway.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Dean gasps under his breath. Except, that’s _not_ what comes out of his mouth. His lips briefly blur out just like his cock did and a high-pitched beeping noise censors the actual curse. They both blink at each other at the surprise of it, then Sam snorts out another laugh and squeezes around his brother’s erection. Dean helplessly curses once more and gets bleeped again, his eyes screwing shut and his head knocking back into the wall behind him hard enough to shake loose some ancient dust from the framed painting hanging behind him. It quickly gets all over his stupid Ebenezer Scrooge hat and Sam’s just surprised the thing hasn’t fallen off yet.

“Careful, Dean,” he stretches forward to whisper mockingly in his ear. “We’re in a kid’s show, remember?”

“Screw you, Sam,” Dean pants back, intentionally declawing his words.

“Yeah?”

His brother’s eyes fly open at the innuendo and any hint of irritation is instantly flooded out by desire. “Oh god yes,” he breathes, getting a hand round the back of Sam’s neck and tugging him in until their foreheads are touching. “You wanna ride me on the table?” he asks eagerly.

Sam holds back a deep breath, trying to cage in the terrible idea. “I think it might break.”

“Who friggin’ cares?”

They _shouldn’t_. They shouldn’t do this. It’s gonna make way too much noise and they’ll wake everybody up and then scar these hapless cartoon characters for life. But _Jesus Christ_ , who could ever say no to Dean like this?

Dean seems to read his surrender in his eyes because he slips his hands down to Sam’s pecs, then curls his fingers in his open lapels and pulls him into a fervent kiss.

Sam’s heart almost stops in his chest as their lips crash together, so overwhelmed with sensation he doesn’t even know how to get his brain to start working again. Now he gets it. Why stuff like this always seems so momentous in the Disney movies. It’s… _everything_. Hell, he almost expects a swell of triumphant background music to underscore the moment. Dean was right. Some things _are_ more vivid here.

Dean’s lips feel just as plush as they’re supposed to, only somehow _better_ , and when his tongue sneaks out to twirl around his own, Sam lets his knees go weak for a second. He lets out a strangled moan, his right hand snapping out to clutch at the base of his brother’s skull, and Dean’s arms come back up around him to pull him in even tighter. Or maybe just to hold him up. Sam’s cock twitches up to fully meet his brother’s where it’s pressing insistent against his groin. He doesn’t even want to breathe it’s so good. Dean makes a final, hungry little noise, tilting his head and drawing Sam in deeper with a few more languid strokes of his tongue and Sam almost lets out a sob when his brother slowly starts pulling away.

Dean’s eyes are still closed by the time Sam lazily opens his, looking lotus-eater contented and eager for more. So Sam huffs out an amazed sound and presses another closed-mouth kiss to the dreamy smile stretching over his brother’s face. Dean’s eyelids flutter open at the pressure, his hands sliding down to curl protectively around Sam’s elbows, and it takes Sam way longer than it should to notice that something’s off. Because Dean’s eyes aren’t dark anymore. Or round.

Like some inhuman horror, there are little, pink, beating cartoon hearts where his pupils should be.

“Holy crap,” Sam hisses in shock, jerking away from the unnerving sight.

“What?” Dean asks in ready concern, his eyes clearing back to normal as he shakes his head. He glances around the room past Sam’s shoulder, trying to suss out the problem. Alert for any danger. “What’s wrong?”

 _Holy shit_. Sam almost wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t seen it with his own two eyes—and there’s a thought. Did his look the same before he’d been spooked by the unexpected display? They must have. “Um, nothing,” Sam says after an awkward moment, trying to calm his own pounding heart as he weighs what to do next. “Just—kiss me again?”

Dean furrows his brow at him, a few wavy black lines popping up to demonstrate his confusion, then he seems to get over it fairly quick. Which is pretty normal for his brother whenever there’s the promise of an orgasm in his near future. “Okay, you psycho,” he says, and the insult sounds more teasing than sincere.

Sam can’t help smiling in anticipation as he leans back in to capture his brother’s mouth. It’s good—it’s _fantastic_ —but he can’t get fully into it this time, too excited about potentially seeing the cartoon hearts again. Dean doesn’t seem to share his problem though, reaching up to slide his hands through Sam’s hair and growling softly at the feel of it. Getting lost in the sensation of the kiss just like he had before. Sam lets him paw at him for as long as he can stand until he absolutely can’t wait any longer, then he softly pushes back against Dean’s chest.

And when his brother reluctantly pulls away, there they are again. Bright pink, throbbing hearts. Nearly floating off of Dean’s face, they’re glowing so brightly. He’s gazing up at Sam with _literal_ love in his eyes and he doesn’t even know it.

“What?” Dean asks again at Sam’s silent delight, even more confused this time. The hearts blink away as the moment does.

“Nothing,” Sam laughs quietly. “Kiss me again.”

“Why are you acting so weird?”

“I’m not,” he says smugly. “Kiss me. I wanna see it again.”

“See _what_ again?”

A warbling, drawn-out yawn comes drifting from the bed behind them and both he and Dean immediately scramble to cover up any evidence of what they were just doing, shoving and elbowing each other out of the way before either of the guys can catch them in the act.

It’s Scooby, Sam realizes once he’s got his shit together enough to throw a quick glance back. The dog stretches out his front paws, sleepily smacks his creepy dog lips a couple of times, and then pins the both of them with a bleary, curious stare.

Sam still has his brother’s boxer shorts crumpled up into a ball in his fist. He subtly slips them into the pocket of his borrowed sleep pants and tries to casually button up his shirt without arousing suspicion, silently praying that Scooby-Doo doesn’t know what sex is.

“Rou guys rokay?” he asks.

Sam blinks at the dog, blinks at his brother, and then blinks at the dog again. “Um…what?”

“Rou guys _rokay?”_ Scooby repeats himself, as if slowing down a bit could help the comprehension any.

Dean seems to understand him anyhow, probably some sort of commonality from years of watching unending reruns of the show. “Yeah,” he says, discreetly adjusting himself as he moves from the table back to his earlier chair, “we’re good, Scoob. Go back to sleep, buddy.” Dean doesn’t waste a second slipping back on his innocent façade, pulling out another sandwich from god knows where and switching all of his attention to _that_ instead.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest and glares at him in exhausted resentment. His brother couldn’t even wait five minutes before moving on? Although, he’s not sure what he expected, honestly. “Where did you even get that?” Sam asks, more pissy than he means it to sound.

Dean grants him an even look, but apparently decides not to push the issue. He’s probably in too good a mood. Not from Sam’s affections, mind you. Just the whole cartoon thing. “I dunno,” he says. “It was just here when I thought about it. Maybe Shaggy packed some extras.”

And _god_ , Sam can’t take much more of this. “Seriously, Dean?”

“Well, the dog coc—” He spares a glance back at the beloved children’s cartoon character and thinks twice, quickly censoring himself. “ _C_ -blocked me,” Dean says under his breath. “Might as well indulge my other vice. Y’know, until Daphne makes it up to me later.”

Scooby interrupts them again before Sam can commit fratricide, letting out another huge yawn and settling down at the foot of the bed, finally going back to sleep.

Sam keeps an eye on him for a few moments, just to make sure, then shifts his attention back to glare at the new activity his brother has replaced him for. He’s even more tense than earlier after being all wound up with no release. “Is that all you’re gonna do?” he snits in disbelief. “Eat?”

“ _Relax_ ,” Dean chides him around the giant mouthful he’d just chomped out of the bread. “In a few minutes we’re gonna find out that Cousin Simple’s missing. The Scoobies are gonna think that it’s a ghost, but really it’s just the lawyer, Cosgood Creeps, in disguise.”

A man’s terrified scream suddenly rings out over the entire second floor, rocketing the male half of the Scooby gang immediately awake in their bed. Sam jolts a little too, startled by the unexpected immediacy of the sound, then tries not to growl as a realization creeps over him. If they actually _had_ gotten down to the sex without any canine interference, they’d be caught red-handed by now thanks to Dean’s terrible time-management skills. Or— _blurry pixel_ -handed, as it were.

“Told you,” Dean says in an insufferably self-satisfied tone of voice.

And if Sam didn’t love that stupid, perfect, chiseled face so much, he’d put a fist through it.

Knowing his luck, under cartoon universe rules, it’d probably stick that way.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the "Scooby-Doo" theme song.


End file.
